The Good Brother
by Nomme de Plume
Summary: Sansa falls in with the wrong Clegane. Sansa/Gregor noncon,with Sansa/Sandor later. AU.
1. Chapter 1

Sansa Stark bolted upright out of a sound sleep. At first she didn't know what it was that had awoken her. The Eyrie was dark and still, a cold moon carving a swath of white light across the floor of her room. Sansa tucked a lock of brown hair behind her ear and took a breath. _It was just a dream_, she told herself. _Go back to sleep. Robin will need you in the mor-_

There was a sudden, wet thunk against her bedroom door, and Sansa started. Her eyes widened as a thick, dark liquid began to seep under the bottom, spreading over the cool stones that made up the floor. Her heart in her throat, Sansa slipped out of bed and crept slowly across the floor. _One of the servants snuck to the kitchen for wine, that's it. Some of the Dornish red, no doubt._ Yet as she drew closer, Sansa knew it wasn't wine. Her fingers, pale in the moonlight, reached out on their own accord but before they could reach the dark liquid, the door burst open.

Sansa screamed, stumbling back. The corpse of one of the household guards tumbled into her room, slashed open from shoulder to hip. The guard's eyes were wide and staring, his mouth twisted in a silent scream.

"A-Altan?" she whispered. Altan Waters had always been kind to her, and had a gentle hand when Robin was having one of his fits. A shadow fell across her but before she could move a hand seized her upper arm, gripping it tight enough to crush the bones. "Scream, bitch." A low voice snarled near her ear. "Scream and it'll be the last noise you ever make."

Trembling, Sansa craned her neck to look at her captor. He was taller than her, taller than Altan, and built like an ox. There was a reek of sour meat and cheap wine about him, and something else that Sansa couldn't place. "Who are you?" she whispered. The man twisted her arm painfully, and she cried out. "Please, you're hurting me!"

In a flash, she felt the cold kiss of a blade against her throat. "Your name, bitch."

Sansa swallowed and tried to blink away the tears building up in her eyes. "Alayne. Alayne Stone. I'm Lord Baelish's n-natural daughter." The blade pressed harder and Sansa thought she felt a drop of blood running down her throat. "By the gods, I swear! _Please!_"

The man holding her chuckled, a low, ominous sound. "Your maidenhead – is it intact?" The tears overwhelmed Sansa as she nodded. "Excellent. My master will love that." He shifted his grip, grabbing a handful of her hair. Sansa tried not to cry out as he dragged her out of her room and towards the Eyrie's main hall.

"Who are you?" Sansa's voice wobbled as he yanked her around corner after corner. "Why are you doing this?" Her captor never answered her, just paused at the intersection of two hallways. Sansa managed to glance up, and choked back a scream at what she saw.

A handful of servants lay in a bloodied pile, blood pooling around them. One of them had been disemboweled; the girl's entrails roped out onto the stone floor like glistening snakes. A second had been nearly decapitated, while a third looked as though they'd been cut in two. Sansa felt herself jerked around and a mailed fist slammed into her jaw, sending her sprawling. She landed inches away from the dead bodies, her hand slipping into the blood. With a wordless cry, she scrambled away from them. She cowered in a corner as her captor strode over to her again. For the first time she saw the hilt of a sword and she thought he would kill her then and there. He stooped, grabbed her arm again, and yanked her to her feet. He pulled her the rest of the way to the main hall.

"Alayne!" Robin's plaintive cry echoed through the cavernous room as Sansa was again thrown to the ground. She regained her feet quickly, skittering to the frail boy. He threw himself into her arms and she felt his frame shaking. "Alayne, what're the bad men doing?"

"I don't know, Sweetrobin," she whispered, smoothing his sweat-soaked hair back. "But just – just do what he says, alright? Do what he says and we won't get hurt." _Please, please don't let him hurt us,_ she prayed to whatever god may be passing by.

The sounds of a scuffle drew her attention to the doorway. She glanced, gasped, and drew Robin's head into her bosom to shield her from what a second man was dragging in. It was Petyr Baelish, or what was left of him. It looked as though Littlefinger had put up a fight when he was pulled from his bed. One eye was swollen shut, blood sheeting down his face from a gash in his forehead. From the way he was cradling his left arm, Sansa knew it was broken, and badly. Despite how much she detested the man, Sansa recognized the fear in his eyes.

Petyr was thrown towards her and Robin, and painfully gained his feet. Their captors stood before them, a third one joining the other two. Robin had drawn his head away from Sansa, but at the sight of the third man he whimpered. "Alayne," he whispered loudly. "Make them go away! I command it!"

"Shhh," Sansa shushed him, casting a fearful glance at Petyr. _The Eyrie's supposed to be untouchable. Impregnable._

"Who is your leader?" Petyr was asking the three men. Sansa took a closer look at them. Large, muscular, scarred, the lot of them. They wore mismatched, dented armor with no sigils or markings. _Sellswords. Outlaws._

The biggest man, the one who had dragged Littlefinger in, spoke. His voice was rough. "That would be none of your business, Baelish. There's wealth in these halls, we heard. Gold in the walls. Lady Lysa been hoardin' it up for years, since Lord Arryn died."

"I'm afraid you're mistaken." Littlefinger replied smoothly. "Now, if you'd be so good as to leave the same way you came, I'd be willing to overlook the…unfortunate injuries you've inflicted on my staff-"

The sound of leather screaming against metal, a gleam of silver in the moonlight, and there was a hot spray against Sansa's face. Littlefinger made a harsh, strangled sound and sank to his knees. His throat had been opened from one ear to the other, and by the time he collapsed onto his face, the leader of the sellswords had wiped the blood off his blade and tucked it back in its sheath.

Sansa could not scream. Her breath had fled, leaving her skin alternating between hot and cold. While Robin shrieked, she raised a shaking hand to her face. Her jaw, already tender from the previous blow, was now spattered with Littlefinger's blood. "Robin, hush now, Robin, please." She babbled, trying to regain control of the boy. His shaking grew worse and she prayed he wouldn't have a full-on fit. _Please, not here, not now._ She tried to wrap her arms around him.

Her captor reached forward and snatched him out of her grasp like a hawk would a fish from a lake. Robin screamed louder, kicking and flailing uselessly as he was pulled across the hall. With one hand, the man wrenched open the Moon Door. A bone-chilling blast of wind pelted Sansa, so cold it burned. Robin yelled again, reaching for the door frame.

Sansa raced across the room, screaming. "Robin! For the gods' sake, _no!"_ As easily as if he were flicking a fly from his ale, Sansa's captor flung the boy into the harsh winter night. His thin screams lingered long after he did.

"_NO!"_ Sansa screamed until her throat was raw. "No, how could you? He was a boy! A child!" She flung herself at her captor, pummeling him ineffectively. "He didn't do anything, he doesn't know anything! There's no gold here!"

The man grabbed her arm again, pulling her away from the door. He whirled her around and slammed her against the wall. "Tell me your name. Your _real_ name, bitch."

"Alayne Stone, I already told-" The blow that followed made Sansa's head ring and, she thought, broke her jaw.

"You're no more Alayne Stone than I am the High Septon." The man snarled. "Littlefinger didn't have no bastards. Tell me the truth and you won't suffer. Lie to me again," He loosened his sword in its scabbard, "and I can't make no promises."

Sansa looked from Petyr's bloodless corpse to the still-open Moon Door. She closed her eyes and saw her father's legs twitch, her Septa's head decayed beyond recognition, the towers of Winterfell that she would never see again. She heard her own screams echo in her ears and felt the last of her resolve crumble and felt the last of her resolve crumble. "I …my name is Sansa. Sansa Stark." The man drew his sword and held hit high over Sansa's head. Sansa's eyes widened. "But you said-"

"I said you wouldn't suffer." He brought the hilt down on the side of Sansa's head. There was a flash of white pain, then sweet darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N Largely expository night. I'm not as happy with this chapter as I was with the first and I was honestly expecting to get further than I did tonight but what can you do? Anyway, same song. I don't own anything except for one cat who felt compelled to lay on my wrists while I was trying to type, and another one who, if tonight is any indication, is dumb as soup. Let me know what you think._

Robin was falling. Her Sweetrobin was falling, screaming, gone. Sansa's own scream was ripped from her lungs as she lunged for him, but it was too late. She skidded across the stone floor towards the open Moon Door and realized too late she was going over as well. Her nails scrabbled uselessly, ripping and bleeding as she went careening into the bitter night-

-and jerked awake. She blinked and tried to reach her hand up to rub the sleep out of her eyes, but her hand wouldn't move. Neither would her other one. Sansa blinked again and realized she wasn't in her bed in the Eyrie – she was bound hand and foot on the back of a mule, wrapped roughly in a musty cloak and furs, and there was a firm mass behind her. _It wasn't a dream._ Sansa's heart rocketed into her throat but before she could do so much as cry out, she felt a sharp pressure at the juncture of her shoulder and neck.

"I will have to ask you to remain quiet, little wolf." Despite the wind howling and ice pelting her, the voice in Sansa's ear was soft as silk, low. Menacing, but not as coarse as the man who'd killed Robin and Littlefinger. "I would hate for you to cause a fuss at this elevation, especially when you consider the fact that my lord is already in a fouler mood than usual."

Sansa didn't know if she was shivering from fright or cold. "Tell me your name."

"You are not in the position to be giving commands."

"Who is your lord, then? Tell me, please. _Please_, and I'm not commanding, I-"

"You are a greatly wanted woman, little wolf. Surely you know you and your lord husband stand accused of murdering your king."

"I didn't murder-"

"I do not particularly care if you did or did not. I am telling you what kind of man my lord is. As I was saying, you and your lord husband stand accused of murdering your king, and his mother has let loose her most rabid dog to find you."

_Dog? _Sansa couldn't tell if her heart lurched or if the mule she rode on stumbled. Surely he didn't mean- no. No. The Hound had been gone since Blackwater and the green night. The mule snorted, startling Sansa.

"I will not be boring you with the details, but my lord did, in fact, find you. Well," the man's torso twitched slightly and Sansa assumed he had chuckled. "One of his men did. That is a great deal of why he is in such a foul mood. You see, the last thing my good lord said to us after we ascended this horrid lump of rock was to alert him if they found you. He wanted to be the one to rouse you, Baelish, and the boy. He was the one who wanted to have your fear, your screams. But, sellswords being what they are, did not listen. While you were being pulled from your bed, my lord was having his way with one of the kitchen maids. Well," another twitch, "his sword was, at least. Perhaps his dagger; he may have been feeling kind."

Sansa swallowed hard against the stone of terror in her throat. "And now he's angry."

"Less angry than he was. When he saw the boy gone, Baelish dead, and you sleeping sweetly on the floor, his blood rose. The three men who disobeyed him now find their heads decorating spikes atop the mountain, with certain parts of their male anatomy residing in their mouths. Tell me, are you in any discomfort?"

The abruptness of the question caught Sansa unawares. "I- I'm cold. And my head and jaw hurt."

There was a soft rustling behind her, and a gloved hand pressed a small wineskin to her lips. "Milk of the poppy. Drink. Sleep. When you wake, it will be warmer." Sansa eyed the skin suspiciously and said nothing. "I will not let you fall, little wolf. I am fond of my life and do not wish to end up like my comrades atop the mountain."

_I'm good as dead. There's no one left to save me now._ Clumsily, she swallowed once, twice. Within minutes her eyes started to drift shut.

"Little wolf."

"Mmh."

"_Little wolf._" There was a sharp blow to the back of her head. "You must awake."

Sansa's spine snapped upright and this time she remembered exactly where she was – still on a mule, still bound, still not even knowing what the man she rode with looked like. Her jaw and head still throbbed, but less than they had, and the wind was less severe. Their party had finally made it down the mountains of the Eyrie and had stopped in copse of bare, black trees. The sky above was a cool purple, and Sansa was able to pick out a few stars. If it weren't for the horror she'd seen only hours before, Sansa would've thought it beautiful.

Sansa's new captor swung himself off their mule and untied her wrists and ankles, lifting her easily off the animal. "Easy, there. Try not to draw attention to yourself. My lord will want to see you in a short time." There was a decided note of grimness to his voice.

When Sansa finally got a look at the man she'd ridden down a mountain with, she was surprised. He was a small man, a few inches shorter than her. His hair was dark and thick, curling over a smooth bronze forehead. His face was pert, smart, ageless. She noticed with a jolt that his right eye was nothing but a mass of scar tissue, twisted and raw. Sansa forced herself not to stare, not to think of the scarred face that dwelt only in her dreams now, and instead to focus on the rest of him. His left eye was the color of spring's fertile soil, his body lithe and blade-thin, quick even though he wasn't moving.

The corner of his mouth turned up. "Your lady mother told you staring is rude, no?"

Sansa nodded curtly. "Of course. I'm sorry, Ser…?"

"Not a Ser. Just Renard. " He laughed. "We will camp here tonight, and then come dawn we ride south. Possibly west. My lord has not divulged yet."

For the first time, Sansa was aware of the rest of their party. She turned and gasped at the size of it. There were maybe half a hundred and half again here, men of assorted age and rank from the looks of their armor. A few small campfires had sprung up, with even fewer tents. At the far end of the camp, Sansa spied a massive black warhorse pawing angrily at the snow while a skinny squire struggled to tie its reins to a stake in the ground. Something about the enormous black beast confirmed her worst fears. Her legs were suddenly hollow.

Renard followed her gaze. "My lord's mount. He's only had him a few months. Apparently he had another one, a bigger one. Rumor has it he killed it-"

"-at the Hand's Tourney in King's Landing." Sansa finished flatly. There was a tent near the horse, she saw now. The flap opened, and with cold horror she watched as Renard's lord emerged. She sank to her knees, oblivious of the snow soaking through her thin gown. The tears that had been prickling at the backs of her eyes finally spilled onto her frigid cheeks, and she wrapped her arms around her stomach. _You won't see the morning now. He won't suffer you to live._

As if he could hear her thoughts, Gregor Clegane's dark, empty eyes turned across the camp and locked onto her. He snarled something at his squire, and started to stride across the camp.

Renard's hand was suddenly at her elbow, helping her back to her feet. "Do not cry. He did not come all this way to kill you." He said softly. "When he takes you, save yourself some pain and give him what he wants."


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N – Oy gevalt. This one was hard to write and sadly, it is where I will have to leave you for the weekend. I out of town until Sunday but hopefully I will be able to post again on Sunday night or at the latest, Monday. I do want to thank you all for reading so far and those of you who've reviewed thank you thank you thank you! Once more, I own nothing except a deep sense of shame right now._

"On your knees." The tent flapped closed and Ser Gregor's massive bulk blocked out the dim light of the campfires flickering outside.

Sansa could hear the quiet chatter of the men outside. They'd grown quiet as Ser Gregor had led her across the camp, and those who had met her eyes did so with the softest ghost of sympathy. She looked at her hands now, clasped in front of her. She knew the man behind her could kill her with a single blow, and yet she still hesitated.

She heard his heavy footfall behind her and a giant's hand pressed down on her shoulder. Her knees bent, sinking into the cold ground. "I said on your knees." Sansa remained silent while Ser Gregor strode around to face her. She kept her eyes on the ground. "Do you have any idea how much trouble you've been?" Sansa fought off a shiver at the sound of his voice. The only times she could recall hearing him speak, he'd been roaring about something or another, screaming at his squires. This time, she realized, this time was more frightening. Ser Gregor's voice was deathly quiet, starting in a low growl somewhere deep in his chest. "_Do you_?"

"No." The word stuck in Sansa's throat. She cleared it and tried again. "No, my lord."

"Because of you, the cunt Queen has had me drag my men halfway across Westeros. I started out with twice as many bodies as you see out there. Half of them have been killed by godsdamned mountain tribes or sickness or each other. Do you have _any idea how much it has cost me?_"

"No, my lord."

He was pacing now, his breathing hard and fast. It reminded Sansa of the Hand's Tournament so many years ago, it seemed, when he had fought The Hound. A feeling of regret welled up in her chest, stealing her breath away. _Please, please just let me go back to that day. I won't tell the Queen we planned to leave, Father won't die, Arya wouldn't be lost. None of this would've happened. Please…_she tried to blink away her tears. Renard had told her not to cry. She had to be brave, strong. She was still a Stark, after all.

"The cunt Queen told me she wanted your maidenhead intact. Do you want to know why?"

"If it please you." If Ser Gregor's voice could burn like a wildfire, Sansa would make hers cold as the ice that would envelope Winterfell.

"I heard her ranting and raving at King's Landing. She was half in her cups, going on about what she was going to do to you when you were brought back. She wants to watch, you see."

"Watch, my lord?"

"Watch while she has you raped to death, watch while the flesh is torn from your bones, and watch while you are pulled limb from limb by wild dogs." Suddenly, Ser Gregor's voice was in her ear, his breath hot and stale on her neck. "If you're lucky, it'll happen in that order. If I'm involved, it won't."

Sansa raised her eyes enough to stare dead ahead. "Pray, what does all that have to do with my maidenhead, my lord?"

Ser Gregor roared behind her, picking her up and bodily throwing her onto a rough pile of furs. She landed hard on her stomach, the wind knocked from her. She tried to curl up and catch her breath, but suddenly Ser Gregor was on her. His massive hands seized her hips roughly, pulling her to her knees while forcing her chest down. He held her there with one hand and she heard him fumble with the laces to his breeches with the other. That done, he pushed her thin gown over her hips and pressed his length against her backside. "The cunt Queen wants your maid's blood. If it'll stop her bitching, she can have it. There's more than one way to have a girl."

Before Sansa could properly work out what he had said her body was wracked with a burning, unnatural pain centered between her hips. She couldn't even gasp or cry out – Ser Gregor was moving in her in a way she hadn't even thought possible. She bit her lower lip hard enough to taste blood and dug her fingers into the furs underneath her. _Give him what he wants, child,_ Renard had told her. _Save yourself some pain._ She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the pain and remember the first time she'd heard those words. Instead of thinking about the monster ravaging her, tearing her small body apart, she shifted her thoughts to his brother. Some thought him more a monster, but she remembered the surprisingly gentle way he'd wiped blood off her lip and the way he'd looked at her as the Blackwater burned. _Why didn't I go with him?_ _Why was I so scared and stupid?_

After what felt like hours, Ser Gregor's grip on her hips tightened, hard enough now that she thought he would crush the bones. He pumped in her faster and the pain of it forced a cry out from between her lips now. If anything, it seemed to excite him more. His body slapped against hers as he shouted wordlessly, shuddering to slow stop deep inside of her.

When he pulled out of her, she collapsed and curled into a ball on the furs. She hugged her knees to her chest as Ser Gregor barked an order to his squire. A moment later Sansa felt a small, warm hand pulling her to her feet. She followed him numbly back to Renard. The small man wrapped a cloak around her and bade her sit in front of the small fire he'd created. He sat across from her, his remaining eye betraying no emotion but Sansa knew he was well aware of what Ser Gregor had done to her. The entire camp was. After a moment, he reached into the fire near the base and pulled a metal cup out of the embers. Steam rose from it while he added a bit of brown powder. He held it out to her, and she stared at it dumbly. "Drink."

"No." Her voice was quiet. She perched delicately on the edge of a log, trying not to move. Her entire body was a ribbon of pain, and she could feel blood and Ser Gregor's leavings mixed on her thighs. He had left her maidenhead intact, as the Queen apparently desired, but he had taken her in a way that left her feeling more shamed and soiled than she ever had in her life. Bruises were already blossoming on her hips. She didn't have to see them to know, and her ribs hurt where she'd landed on them.

Renard knelt in front of her, took her hand, and wrapped it around the tin cup. "Drink. It will help the pain."

Her eyes flicked over his face briefly. "If I sleep after I drink this will I wake tomorrow?"

"It is not Tears of Lys. It is simply tea made with ground willow bark. It will help."

Sansa didn't want to, but she did. She couldn't hurt any more than she did now. The tea was bitter and had the undercurrent of dirt, but she didn't really care. "Will he do this again?"

"Frequently."

"Frequently." Sansa stared at him. "And you do nothing. Every man here does nothing."

"Every man here values their life, wretched as it may be. They would be foolish to come between Gregor Clegane and what he wants."

"I know someone who did, once." Sansa replied and sipped the tea again. It seemed to get bitterer with every sip.

"Foolish man."

Sansa didn't reply.

Riding was agony. Every night when they stopped, Sansa was nearly faint from the pain and every night when they stopped Ser Gregor would have her brought to his tent where he would take her and discard her. Some nights he used her mouth, some nights he used her hindquarters. Some nights he used both. When the pain began to be too much, Sansa found herself thinking of The Hound more and more. She would close her eyes and imagine his stern, cold gaze; the gruff sound of his voice when he spoke to her, the feel of his scars under her hands the night the Blackwater burned. She started to wonder what it would feel like if it were he were inside her, and his hands were on her. Would he have been rough and cruel as his brother, or would he bring her pleasure? Would his teeth tear at her skin like Ser Gregor's, or would the twisted remains of his lips caress her like in the songs? Would he love her, or use her? _Stupid girl,_ she told herself on more than one occasion as she bled under Ser Gregor. _You'll never know. He's gone away from you and is better for it._

When Ser Gregor would finish, she would be returned to Renard, who would be waiting with a tin cup of willow bark tea or some other herb that would take the worst edge off the pain. She learned that while he was not a master, Renard was wise in the way of medicine. He could look at any root, leaf, or mushroom and say almost immediately if it could kill a man. He had been part of the small party that had scaled the Eyrie while the rest had lingered below, but he would not tell Sansa if he had killed any of the servants within.

He had also replaced the mule they rode down the mountain with a large, gentle vanilla-colored draft horse. The mare's liquid brown eyes looked dolefully at Sansa as if she could sense the girl's pain and fear. There was a long, elegant bow strapped across the back of the saddle, but Sansa had yet to see Renard use it and didn't care enough to ask.

Eventually Sansa began to long for King's Landing. Her death awaited her there, but she no longer cared. When the Stranger came for her, she would welcome him with open arms.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N - I still own nothing._

Sometime between the seventh and eighth night of her captivity, Sansa felt a hand brush across her forehead. She tried to swat it away to no avail.

"Sansa. _Sansa_."

She blinked, rubbing a hand across her eyes. "Renard?"

"No, child. Open your eyes.

Bewildered, Sansa opened her eyes. She was no longer in the barren, cold woods west of the Vale; instead, she was in the godswood at Winterfell. The landscape was blanketed in snow save for the immediate area, which was bathed in the fallen red leaves of the resident wierwood. Snow fell gently, but Sansa didn't feel the cold. She didn't feel anything.

Sitting on a fallen log across from her was her father. He looked healthier than she last remembered him. His face was healthy, his eyes bright, his frame strong and sure. His hands rested easy on his knees, and his gaze was quiet.

Sansa felt the hot prickling of tears behind her eyes. "Father?" At his nod, she let out a breath she wasn't aware she'd been holding. "But you're dead. I saw you, Joffrey showed me your head."

"And you're as scared now as you were then, child. "

"The Queen means to have me dead for killing Joffrey and I can't stop her."

Ned Stark rose and came to sit next to her, his back resting against the bleached white wood. Sansa leaned against his arm, basking in his solidity, the warm scent rising off him, the rise and fall of his chest. He draped his arm across her shoulders, and Sansa felt like a little girl all over again. "Tell me what our sigil is." he said. The words rumbled in his chest, and she remembered all the times she'd lean her ear right where it was now and hear him tell her stories of the North, of their anscestors.

"A direwolf."

"Stronger, bigger, and some would say braver than a regular wolf. Do you remember when I told you and Arya that even if the pack dies, the wolf will survive?" She nodded, and he continued. "You know our pack is scattered. Some are dead."

The tears that had been building threatened to spill over. "Mother and Robb, Bran, Rickon and you. This is all my fault, Father. If I hadn't told the Queen we were leaving King's Landing, if I'd told the truth about when Joffrey attacked the butcher's boy -"

"Hush, Sansa, hush now." Ned's large, rough hands were stroking her hair while she cried. "You didn't mean for all this to happen. I know that, and so does your mother and everyone else."

Sansa was quiet for a while. "Why am I here?"

"You're here so I can remind you to stay strong. You haven't given up yet, but you're so close to it, child. You've forgotten who you are, and who the Starks are." Ned's tone was still gentle, although the words hit Sansa like a blow from a warhammer. "There must always be a Stark at Winterfell. Do you remember that?"

"Yes."

"Reclaim your home. If you ride north and call our bannermen, you can do it. You have to do it."

Sansa raised her tear-stained face from Ned's chest and took solace in his soft grey eyes. "How?"

"I can't tell you that. But I can tell you is that you won't be able to do it on the way to King's Landing."

_Escape. Escape from The Mountain That Rapes._

"It won't be easy." Ned continued as though he'd heard her thoughts. _Who knows, he might have._"But you're strong, Sansa. Stronger than you remember. You have untold courage and heart and brains in your head. Use them."

The quiet landscape was starting to fade. Sansa straightened, her heart starting to pound. "Don't leave me, Father." All was a dim grey-white now, including Ned. "I can't do this alone!"

Her father's eyes smiled and he touched her cheek. "You're not alone, child. Just because you can't see your pack doesn't mean it's not all around you."

oOo

Sansa's eyes snapped open and she was once again on the cold ground in a makeshift tent. Her body still ached in the most horrible of ways, but she was starting to numb herself to it. Renard lay across the tent from her, his one eye open, unblinking. "Who did you dream of?"

She sat up and shook her head. "No one."

"Do not lie to me. You spoke. You wept. You dreamed of someone."

"I spoke?" Sansa was genuinely surprised. "What did I say?"

"You asked 'how', and then begged someone to not leave you. A lost love, perhaps? A family member?" Renard's quick lips quirked in a smile.

"Oh. It...it was nothing. Just a dream, I suppose."

"You are a terrible liar."

Sansa glared at him. "What does it matter what I dreamed? It's none of your business." She jerked her blankets up over her chest and turned away from Renard and his prying eye. She heard him chuckle.

"I think you are planning something, and that it would be stupid to try to escape."

Sansa's breath solidified in her throat. "I'm not." It was a good thing she wasn't facing him, lest he see the bright red lie rise across her cheeks.

"Good." She heard Renard shift. "For however bad the punishment the Queen has in store for you, it would seem like Paradise compared to what else Ser Gregor would do to you should you try to get away."

Sansa rolled over, facing him again. Renard had taken his long bow off the back of his horse and was stringing it, nimble fingers twining a pale rope. "You'd kill me if I ran, wouldn't you."

"I would." He answered, not looking up from his work. "I value my life. You know that, and you know I value it above yours. I will not give you a mercy killing, if that is what you think."

"I'm not asking you to."

His gaze flickered up at her briefly. "Good. Mercy, it is for the weak. You are not weak, are you."

"No." Sansa replied gazing at the shadows the flickering campfires were casting outside the tent. "I am not weak.

It was close to dawn before Sansa finally heard Renard sleep. The rest of the camp was finally deathly still, quieter than Sansa thought it could be. She took a breath, let it out as silently as she could, and slid out from underneath her thin blankets. Gathering up what food she could, she tucked the remainder of a loaf of stale brown bread and hard cheese into her cloak. She lifted the tent flap slowly, peering out to see if anyone was awake. When there was no movement and no eyes met hers, she slid her slender body out and quietly let the flap drop.

Sansa held her breath and kept her weight on the balls of her feet, creeping around sleeping bodies and looking out for anything that would give her away. The trees gradually enveloped her, but she knew she wasn't safe, that she wouldn't be safe until …well, never. When the last lights of the campfires had vanished, she let her breath out, taking stock of what she had, and what she should do now.

_You have enough food for maybe a week if you stretch it, no water, but there is snow here and there. You have no weapons, no horse, no proper clothing, no allies, no idea of where you are and no idea where to go. When Father told you to reclaim the North this isn't what he had in mind. You will die in a week, if not sooner. _Sansa gave herself a mental shake. _No. You the Lady of Winterfell, Heiress to the North, last wolf of the pack. You _will_ find a way to get through this. You've no other choice. Use what you've got. Think like Arya._

Sansa closed her eyes for a long moment, trying to think what her constantly annoying but admittedly resourceful sister would do. When she opened them, she was able to see more clearly. She looked up, trying to pick out a familiar star or constellation. She found the Great Shadowcat, his celestial ears pointing ever westward. _There. If that's west, then east is behind you, and north is to your right. Now, use your ears. Arya used to be able to hear through walls._

The pre-dawn woods were still deathly silent. No birds, no rustling branches, no wind. Just…there. _What is that? Water. A stream, or a river? Get to it, and follow it. Follow it downstream. _Sansa aimed herself in a roughly southward direction and started walking. Sure enough, the rushing sound got clearer as she got closer. The ground started tilting up, and Sansa became winded quickly. She held on to a barren white birch while she tried to catch her breath, trying not to imagine Ser Gregor stomping through the woods, his massive longsword thirsting for her blood or other horrible things he could do to her. _Few things could be worse than what's waiting for you at the Red Keep, or what he's done to you already._ The thought strengthened her somewhat, and she stood up straight. The soil was rocky the higher she climbed, and she could see the end of the trees up ahead. She'd keep low to the ground, get a view of her surroundings. With any luck, there'd be a village or an inn she could stop at. _You have no coin. But you can sing, and Septa Mordane made sure you knew the value of hard work._

Sansa reached the top of the hill. Below her, there was a sharp drop to a rolling, black river. She swallowed, spotting a few chunks of ice spinning in the dark water, bouncing off jagged rocks. Suddenly, Sansa felt her courage wilt. This was folly. Worse, this was stupid. Who did she think she was, trying to run away from the most dangerous, most brutal man in the kingdom in a coming winter with no more supplies than a week's worth of moldering bread. _Go back to the camp. With any luck, you can sneak back into the tent and if Renard wakes up, just tell him you needed to relieve yourself. You'll stand a better chance of escaping on a caravan out of King's Landing, or maybe a ship. Out here you'll die._

She heard the whisper of the arrow a split second before it slammed into the base of her spine, driving her to her knees. The pain that shot up her spine made her cry out, dizzy with pain. Her spine burned worse than anything she'd felt. She tried to gain her feet, only to have a second arrow pierce her back higher up, near her right shoulder. The blood started to run down her back, hot in the cold winter morning. Her body was starting to go numb and the dream of seeing Winterfell again scattered like so many ashes in the wind. _No. Not like this, not like-_ Sansa tried to draw a breath, only to realize she could only suck in a whisper of air. She coughed, the force of it making it feel like someone as driving the arrows further into her back. She coughed again, desperately, and felt something wet shoot into her hand.

There was a sigh behind her before a booted foot nudged her hip. Sansa lost her balance, rolling onto her back and twisting the arrows further in. She writhed on the cold ground and screamed, the sound wet and bloody. Tears welled out of her eyes, and her fingers scrabbled uselessly at the dirt. A figure blotted out the stars above her, and she heard another sigh.

"I told you I would kill you if you tried to run, no?" Renard sat back on his haunches, looking down at her without emotion.

Sansa's legs were numb and the hollowness was starting to creep to her belly and fingers. "I am a Stark." she said faintly. Speaking was getting more difficult. "We are the wolves of winter and do not give in to the lions."

Distantly she heard a low thundering in the ground. _Hooves. He's coming for me. Ser Gregor's coming for me._ She turned her head, resting her cheek on the cold dirt. _I'm sorry Father. You had too much faith in me. I can't save House Stark. All I can do is die in the dirt. _Sansa fought for another breath, feeling oddly at peace. _See where thinking like Arya has gotten me…_

The thundering was louder now, accompanied by crashing and snapping branches. Dawn was breaking and through it, she could see a hulking black beast and rider, a pair bred for blood and death.

Sansa smiled, and there was no pain.

_A/N pt.2 - So tell me, readers, what do you want to see? I know where this is going plotwise (roughly) but I want to make sure you're getting what you want out of this. Thank you all again for reading and as always, I welcome your feedback._


	5. Chapter 5

_If this is death,_ Sansa thought dimly, _it's an awfully dull way to spend an eternity._She felt as though she were floating through a thick gray haze, hearing snippets of conversations with no context. They always seemed to be between two voices; one soft, refined, and gentle, while the other seemed angrier and hoarse. There was an air of familiarity behind it, but every time Sansa tried to put a face to it she drifted into another bank of fog and all was quiet again.

Eventually she became aware of other sensations. Occasionally she could smell bread baking, although very far away. There were other sounds as well; a horse whinnying, somewhere a bell chiming, footsteps approaching and departing. She could feel the heat of a lantern near her and smell the wax of the candle melting.

One time she felt a hand touch her face. It was huge, calloused, warm, and surprisingly gentle. Again, there was something familiar about it. She tried to raise her own hand to catch it but the blasted limb wouldn't move. The thumb of the hand brushed over her cheekbone, and the rough fingers brushed gently through her hair. Even in her numb haze, Sansa could tell the tender gesture was unnatural. _This is absurd. Even if your limbs have all withered away your eyes will open._Her lids, though, felt weighted, and it took every ounce of effort she had, but...there. A slit of light pierced her brain, dashing away the numbing fog and replacing it with a throbbing, constant ache. She whimpered softly and the hand froze.

Sansa looked at the figure sitting next to her the edge of her bed. Gray eyes came into focus; not the soft, clear ones of her father. These were chips of granite; hard, unyielding, haunted. As she gazed into them she found her arm had finally gotten around to responding. She caught Sandor Clegane's hand in her own and smiled. "I thought I'd never see you again." Her throat was dry and scratchy.

His lips twitched in a faint smile. "I'm like a bad copper, little bird. I always turn up."

Her smile grew but before she could respond, a door out of her range of vision creaked noisily as it opened. Sandor dropped her hand and stood, whatever openness in his face closing like a slammed window.

"I see you've rejoined us." Sansa recognized the voice immediately as the soft, gentle voice she'd heard while she slept, and now she saw the man it belonged to. He was taller than she'd thought, frail and bent with a kind, wizened face and cloudy, pale eyes. He stood next to Sandor and smiled down at Sansa. "I was hoping you would."

"Where am I?" she asked.

"You, my dear, are a guest of the Quiet Isle. Although you were nearly a permanent resident of our cemetery."

Sansa's brow furrowed, and she tried to sit up. It was a mistake. Dizziness wrapped around her and the world swam and the old man gently pushed her back down. "Brother, please, may we have the room?"

Sansa could tell by the way his mouth tightened Sandor did not want to leave, but he nodded once and, giving her one last, lingering look, exited quietly. The old man watched him go, sighing softly. "He's getting better. Truly, he is." He turned back to Sansa and pulled a wooden chair to sit near the bed. "Now then, child, where were we?"

"You were going to tell me how I got here."

"Ah yes. Well, from time to time my young Brother feels the need to stretch his legs. Or more appropriately, his horse's legs."

"Stranger." Sansa remembered hearing the black destrier's name and smiled.

"Is that what he calls it?" The old man's eyebrows rose and fell with a sigh. "Appropriate. The horse is hellborn. Anyway, he had his horse out before dawn and heard a noise - a girl screaming. I'm assuming that was you, at least I hope it was. Otherwise there's another young girl in distress out there, gods save us all. He didn't tell me much of what happened after - he was more concerned over you."

Despite herself, Sansa felt her cheeks flush. "He was?"

"With good reason. You had an arrow through one lung, another an inch deep in your tailbone, and..." his voice trailed off while he searched for words. "It looks like you were subject to horrifying tortures." When Sansa didn't respond, he continued. "Yes. Well. It was a very dire situation with you. Very dire. There were days we thought you would leave us."

"Days?" Sansa was confused. "How long have I been here?"

"Nigh on a week, my dear."

"A _week_?" Sansa felt as though she'd been slapped. "But what of Renard? And Ser Gregor?"

The old man's eyebrows raised again. "I do not anyone named Renard, and by 'Ser Gregor' I am hoping you're not referring to the lord of Clegane keep." Sansa hesitated, then nodded once. "I see. That would explain the...yes. Well. His reputation certainly precedes him." He stood, his knees creaking. "You must be weary. I will see what I can find for you to eat."

"Wait," Sansa begged. "Tell me your name, at least. And how Sandor came to be here."

"You must think me a terrible clod." The old man laughed. "You may call me Maester Maddoc. Or Brother Maddoc. Or just Maddoc. I'm not picky. As for young Sandor's story, it is not my place to tell you that. For now, rest while I see about some food." He turned to leave.

"Maester?"

"Yes?"

Sansa swallowed again, wishing for something to drink. "Please- please don't tell Sandor it was his brother that took m- that captured me."

"You don't think this is something he should know?"

"No, I do. But..."

Maester Maddoc held up a gnarled hand. "I understand. His brother, as I said, has a reputation that precedes him. If you wish to tell him, do it in your own time. And in his."

Once Maddoc had left, Sansa looked around the room she was in. It was small, but bright. The ceiling was slanted sharply, held up with thick dark beams. The furniture was sparse, consisting of the bed she was in, the chair the Maester had sat in, and a small table with a lantern on it. Weak sunlight filtered through the smudged window. It wasn't anywhere near as grandiose as King's Landing or as familiar as Winterfell, but it was comfortable.

Sansa tried sitting up again, and after several long minutes of struggling, she managed to rest her back against the carved headboard. She bit her lip as a sharp stab of pain jolted through her back and left shoulder and shifted. Reaching around, she was able to feel thick bandages wrapping around her ribcage and slanting up over her left arm, and another set around the small of her back. If her injuries hurt this much after a week, Sansa could only thank the Seven she'd spent the past seven days unconscious. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. _I'm sorry, Father. All I had to do is go north and north and north again and I couldn't even do that right._

It seemed like only a moment had passed, but when a sharp knock rang through her room, Sansa jerked awake. The square of weak sunlight had shifted further across the room and she could see twilit purple clouds scuttling across the sky. The knock came again.

"Come in," she called. The door creaked open, and a small girl entered carrying a tray. Like Sansa, she had red hair but where Sansa's was a deep, full auburn, the girl's was a firey, copper shade that bordered on orange, loosely braided and hanging down her back. She had an oblong, drawn face, large, dark eyes, and an expression of such dourness that it made Sansa long to see Arya. Without a word, she set the tray across Sansa's lap and took a step back, waiting.

Sansa looked at the meager meal set before her - a boiled egg, a crust of fresh bread, honey, and tea. Suddenly she was ravenous. "Would you like some?" She asked the girl. She remained quiet and examined a smudge of dirt on her sleeve. Her eyes jerked towards the door at the sound of approaching footsteps and as Sandor filled the doorway once again, they widened and she bolted past him. He stood aside as she passed, his eyebrow quirking slightly.

Sansa smiled. "She's a quiet one."

Sandor stepped in, leaning against the window frame and crossing his arms. "She's mute. Hasn't said a blessed word since she came to the Isle."

"Oh." Sansa's smile faded. "Does she have a name?"

"The Brothers call her Autumn. She arrived here the same day the white raven did from the Citadel, saying summer was over." He paused. "They're not long on imagination."

"Sandor..."

He looked at her and held her gaze. Her eyes travelled over his face, noticed how worn he looked. She noticed with a jolt that he wore the same rough-spun robes Maester Maddoc did and wondered when he'd turned so pious. Sansa also noticed, with a bigger jolt, that his once-terrible scars actually comforted her and instead of not being able to look at them, she found she couldn't stop starring at his face. Something about it was like coming home. She patted the bed next to her. "Sit." He did, and Sansa offered him half of her bread, which he declined. "I owe you my life." She said softly.

His gaze did not shift off her. "You owe me nothing."

"Hush. I do." Her eyes teared up suddenly, and she blinked furiously. "You have no idea how much."

_A/N Ok, ok, I'm done abusing Sansa for the moment. This is a little shorter and lower on the action scale than normal mainly because I've got a pretty busy schedule tonight, so I wrote this at work. Just don't tell my boss, please. Anyway, you guys and your comments crack me up, and I'm glad you're enjoying this! All that being said I have to go and be a good hostess now. God help us all._


	6. Chapter 6

It was a month before Sansa stopped seeing Ser Gregor lurking in the shadows and stopped straining her ears for the slightest sound of a bow being drawn. The bruises that spread from her wounds gradually faded from black and purple to a sickly green and yellow, and finally disappeared entirely. The scars she bore were minimal, and even the touch of Ser Gregor's hands was starting to fade from her memory…  
>during the day, at least. The nights were different. As soon as Sansa would fall asleep he would be on her in her dreams and in dreams, he never stopped. Renard would always be there, starring impassively at her, motionless save for his hands. His hands were always twining the string in his bow. Every night Sansa woke with a scream at the edge of her throat, her blankets twisted around her and drenched with sweat. She would not sleep after that, but instead would lie in bed and wait for dawn to break.<p>

Once the sun came up, the dreams faded to a faint black smoke on the edge of her memory. She spent her days teaching the silent Autumn how to sew and patch clothes, remembering other household tasks she was taught as a child. She would talk to her as well, telling her stories and occasionally singing. The girl never replied, but Sansa liked to think that she saw enjoyment in Autumn's dark eyes.

Despite the cold, Sansa also tried to get outside. She knew once winter came fresh air and sunlight could cease to exist for months, if not years at a time. Towards evening on one particularly raw and cloudy day, she stood outside a small gated paddock next to Sandor. She'd wrapped herself in an oversize cloak she found, cupping her elbows in her hands, while he had once again donned a Brother's robes. She knew it drew less attention to him and brought him some degree of longed for anonymity.

"You're not sleeping." he said, keeping his eyes on the paddock where he'd let Stranger out. The horse trotted restlessly, tossing his massive black head and blowing clouds of steam out his nostrils. Sandor hated having to keep the stallion locked up as much as he did, but he was too ill-tempered to be out among any other horses.

Sansa knew immediately what he referred to but she chose to ignore it. "I'm not. At present I'm wide awake."

His mouth tightened and he gave her a look. "Don't be difficult, little bird. What keeps you awake?"  
>Sansa sighed, her shoulders dropping. She wrapped her arms tighter around her stomach and took a breath. It would be pointless to try and change the subject, or lie to him. "My Sweetrobin falling. Littlefinger getting his throat cut. Everyone at the Eyrie dying horrible, painful deaths because of me." <em>Your brother. Your brother raping me keeps me awake at night.<em>

"Little bird." Sansa heard heaviness in his voice and sensed he wanted to touch her, comfort her. He made no move, however, and neither did she. "They didn't die because of-"

"They did." She snapped, sharper than she anticipated. "Those outlaws only came to the Eyrie because the Queen gave them more gold than most men will ever see just to take me back to King's Landing. They fed Littlefinger and Robin some- some-" Sansa flailed for words. "Some _horseshit_ story about there being lost wealth in the Eyrie before they killed them. They killed an innocent little boy, Sandor. For me. How do I know they're not in the woods across the river? How do I know they're not going to creep across one night, and kill everyone here?"

There was a long pause before he responded. "Because I won't let them." She heard him shift his weight. "The Maester told me-"

Sansa's eyes darted to his face, widening with fear. Had Maddoc betrayed her trust and told him it was his brother?

"-what they did to you." Her vision blurred as he looked down at her. She was suddenly aware of how close he was and could feel the heat radiating off him. "I swear to you, no one will lay a hand on you ever again, as long as I live." He cupped her cheek, wiping away tears that had fallen with his thumb. He met her gaze and her breath caught - the intensity in them was frightening. Her eyes traveled to his lips and she found herself wondering not for the first time what it'd be like to kiss him. His hand drifted down her throat, fingers running through her hair and resting on the back of her neck. When he spoke again his voice was soft, just above a hoarse whisper. "Do you trust me?"

In that moment if he had asked Sansa to fly she would have found a way. Instead she nodded, resting her cheek against his chest and taking solace in the steady beat of his heart. "Yes," she whispered. After a moment his arms wrapped around her and as far as Sansa was concerned the rest of the world faded away. "I trust you."

He tipped her chin up and she was again drawn in to the deep strength in his eyes. _He's going to kiss me,_ Sansa realized as she leaned in closer. _And it's going to be nothing like the songs say._ Sansa stood on her tiptoes, her hands on his chest. Their lips had barely met when a gust of wind swept across the small Isle, bringing with it a sheet of icy cold rain. Sansa leapt away, gasping and laughing as she was drenched in cold. She pulled the hood on her cloak up while Sandor whistled sharply for Stranger. Catching the horse's bridle, he led both horse and girl across the now-sodden yard and into a small, but sturdy barn. Sansa pulled the door shut after them, wringing water out of her hair while Sandor busied himself putting Stranger in a stall.

Suddenly Sansa was nervous. What had happened outside? How was she supposed to act now? _It would've been a nice kiss too._ She touched her lips and tried to remember the brief, light brush of Sandor's against them. She glanced over at Sandor only to find him glancing at her, a slight smile making the burnt side of his face twitch. She hastily crossed her arms.

Sandor closed the stall door and as he stepped past her Sansa noticed a shadow fall across his face. She reached out and touched his arm. "What's wrong?" He was silent for a long while, facing away from her. The rain pounded heavily on the roof, and her heart started to speed up. "Sandor?"

"Who was it that took you? Do you know?"

Heavy dread settled in her stomach. She did not want to bring his brother into anything; Sansa was sure whatever anger Sandor had done away with, the mere mention of Gregor would bring it roaring back. At the same time though, she knew she couldn't lie to him. "It's not important."

He half-turned, looking at her over his shoulder. She knew the look creeping onto his face now and it only made the dread heavier. "You know better."

Annoyingly, Sansa felt tears pooling up again. Was she filled with nothing but tears? She pressed her lips together. "It was Gregor. It was your brother."

Sandor stared at her, his expression unfathomable, but his hand going to his hip where in years gone by, he'd worn a sword. Without a word, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the stable.

Sansa fled after him. The rain was changing to sleet and she was soaked to the bone within seconds. "Sandor!" she called across the muddy yard. He didn't respond, only continued towards one of the buildings. For a brief moment he was outlined in light pouring out of the door he yanked open. _"Sandor!_" Sansa fled through the growing storm. The small boarding home was almost empty when she entered it. Taking the stairs two at a time, Sansa found herself at the end of a long hallway. Light shone from under the last door on the left, and she hurried towards it. Pushing it open, she saw Sandor kneeling in front of a battered-looking chest. He'd pulled off his sodden robes and was dressed only in breeches. A low fire burned in a corner fireplace, and the flames reflected off a long sword leaning against the wall. He stood, tossing a dagger and worn-looking tunic onto the bed.

"Sandor," Sansa stepped into the room hesitantly, dripping and trying not to shiver. "What are you doing?"

He turned towards her then and her legs began to feel hollow. The look on his face was sheer rage, twisting his features into something monstrous. He was breathing heavily, the muscles in his torso clenching. "I'm going to kill my brother."

_A/N Ugh. I could've written forever tonight but, y'know, laundry has to get folded. There are a lot of good ASoIaF stories I'm reading right now - thank you, writers, for writing them and keeping my creative juices flowing. And thank you for reading! Also, because I haven't said it in a few days and know too little about copyright law for my own good, I own nothing, Jon Snow._


	7. Chapter 7

Sansa stared at him incredulously. "No you're not."

"I wasn't asking your permission, little bird."

She strode across the room and stood before him. "You can't do this, Sandor."

"I'm doing Westeros a favor." Sarcasm laced his voice.

"You-" Words began to fail Sansa. "What if he kills you? What then?"

"A grave will get filled either way." His eyes travelled down the length of her body. "You're soaked."

"I don't care!" Sansa flung off her cloak, letting it lay in a sodden heap on the floor. She immediately regretted it. The cloak, even while wet, provided warmth her otherwise thin dress did not. "What about everything you just said? You swore you wouldn't let anyone lay a hand on me and not half an hour later you're running away and leaving me? Again?" She knew immediately it was the wrong thing to say. His jaw tightened and he slammed his dagger into its sheath. He brushed past her again.

"Leave, little bird. Go back to your nest. You'll be safe here with the Brothers."

"Unless Gregor kills you. How long do you think it will take him to get here and kill every one of us? A week? Two?" The anger fled out of Sansa's voice. "Sandor, I am begging you. If you go...you're all I have left." He didn't face her but she knew he was listening. She took a step closer and tried to keep her teeth from chattering, despite the warmth the fire was throwing off. "Every time Gregor touched me, you were the one I thought about. I would close my eyes and imagine it was you, that I'd left with you before and that it was you I was pleasuring. Some nights if I imagined that hard enough, it didn't hurt so much. If you go, and if he kills you..." Sansa couldn't talk any more. Mustering all her courage, she took another step closer to him and rested her hands on his firm biceps. The muscles across his back tightened at her touch. She pressed her lips to the warm skin between his shoulders and slid her hands to rest at his wrists. "Don't leave." she whispered.

His hands clenched into fists. "Don't do this. Not now."

"Do what?"

He turned on her then and she was suddenly aware of exactly how much taller and bigger he was than her. _If he wants to go there's nothing you can do to stop him,_ she told herself but nevertheless, she met his gaze. Where previously there had been anger, it was now suffused with something she couldn't immediately identify but it sent a jolt deep into her belly. _He wants me._ The realization didn't come as a shock to Sansa. She'd grown used to the way men looked at her in the past and learned to ignore it. What did shock her was how much she wanted him back. Her mind flitted back to the kiss mere minutes ago and she knew if he touched her again it wouldn't stop at that. She would give everything she had to him if it could keep him next to her.

Suddenly she couldn't stand to look at him - she was getting burned by the longing emanating from his eyes. She tore her own away but didn't know where to rest them - directly in front of her was the muscled wall of his chest with its own latticework of scars, old and new. She wanted so badly to touch them, trace them every night for the rest of her life, but at the same time wanted to get out of the room, get away from whatever it was that he was making her feel.

"Fine." She said with bravado she didn't feel. "Go then. Get yourself killed." Sansa turned on her heel and had nearly made it to the door when Sandor's hand grasped her upper arm and pulled her back to him. Before she could pull away his lips were on hers; hot, hard, insistent. His free hand circled to the small of her back and pressed her against him. Then, as suddenly as he'd grabbed her, Sandor pushed her away. "Gods be damned, little bird, I can't do this."

Sansa felt like a rowboat adrift at sea. She stared at Sandor, her lips still tingling and her body already missing his touch. "You can't…?"

Sandor was pacing like a caged beast and Sansa couldn't help but be slightly distracted by the way the firelight caressed his body. "If I touch you I won't be able to stop, little bird. Even if you want me to."

Sansa knew he was right. Her maidenhead was quite literally the only value she had as a potential bride, assuming she was ever able to be free of Tyrion Lannister. If she played her cards right, she would be able to barter her virginity into rebuilding Winterfell, and restoring her family's name, and securing a comfortable life for her and whatever children she'd bear. As she gazed at Sandor, though, she knew the only man she wanted at her side was standing in front of her.

She placed her hands on either side of his face and kissed him softly, sucking lightly on his lower lip. He groaned, spanning his hands across her hips. His kiss trailed down her throat and as his teeth nipped at the curve of her shoulder she whispered his name. "I don't want you to stop." As if to prove it to him, she unlaced the bodice to her dress and let it pool on the floor. Sansa had never felt so exposed in her life. It took all of her reserve to not cross her arms or try to cover herself.

For what seemed like an eternity all Sandor did was stare at her. She felt his eyes as keenly as she would his hands, caressing her breasts and pert nipples, travelling the flat length of her stomach, lingering at the juncture of her thighs and moving back up again. When his eyes met hers he sank to his knees, wrapping his hands around her hips again, gently pushing her back. The backs of her knees hit the bed and she fell back on it. He wasted no time bringing her sex to his mouth.

At the first caress Sansa almost couldn't breathe. "Oh gods," she whimpered. She hadn't known sensations like this were possible. Her fingers were tangled in his hair as his were trailing up the inside of her thigh. His tongue and fingers moved in tandem, spidering over her sex and bringing forth small cries from her parted lips. She writhed in his grasp, her hips undulating and pressing her against his eager lips. His tongue flickered against her small, sensitive nub and it sent her sailing over the edge he'd been building inside of her. His name was torn hoarsely from her throat, and she saw stars behind her eyes. A feeling of complete and utter sublimation washed over her, leaving her trembling. After he'd pulled the last glimmer of passion from her, he moved up her body, leaving a trail of kisses up her stomach before lingering on each breast. By the time he made it to her mouth she'd almost gotten her breath back only to have it stolen again by the unexpected taste on his lips. She deepened the kiss experimentally, and decided the taste, _her_ taste, was not unpleasant.

Sandor's voice rumbled in her ear. "This is your last chance to say no, little bird." Sansa kissed him in response, her fingers trailing down his taut stomach and unlacing his breeches. They melted away under her touch and she briefly felt him pressed against her. He rolled over, pulling her on top of him. Her thighs spread, and she straddled him. He sat up, his back against the wall at the head of the bed and rested his hands at her waist. His lips sought out her nipple and bit it lightly, causing Sansa to cry out and arch her back into his touch. Her hips ground against his stiffened manhood and Sandor made a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

Sansa wrapped her fingers around his member, guiding him to her entrance. "Sandor…" she whispered and was surprised at the need and fear in her voice. He'd had many women before her – what if she wasn't good enough? What if after he'd had her, he didn't want her? "I don't know how to…"

"Hush, little bird." Grasping her hips tenderly, Sandor lowered her onto him slowly, and claimed her as his own. While it didn't hurt as much as she thought it would, it was a foreign and entirely enjoyable sensation. Her body slowly stretched to accommodate his as he began to move within her. Her fingers tightened on his back as he sped up. Her own pleasure began to build again as Sandor's motions became faster and harder. She whimpered, working her hips against his thrusts, both of them striving to reach the same height. This time when the wave finally crashed over her, she nearly screamed his name. He covered her lips with his own, muffing both their cries of pleasure and release.

After a moment Sandor lifted his head and Sansa saw his small grin. "Gods be damned, Sansa. "What would your little lord husband say if he could see you bedded by a beast like me?"

"My little lord husband never touched me and has more like than not whored himself into oblivion by now."" Sansa replied as he pulled her down with him and kissed her forehead. She smiled sleepily and caught his lips with her own. To Sansa, the only two people in the world right now were her and Sandor.

That night, she did not dream.

_A/N Confession time: This is the first love scene I've written from start to finish. I beta-ed one but I have never actually done one myself and I'm worried it shows. Anyway, as always, thank you for reading and I own nothing. I just need to go think unsexy thoughts for a bit. Anyone got a math book?_


	8. Chapter 8

Sansa woke up confused. The morning light was striking her bed at the wrong angle an she didn't remember it even being this big and –

_Oh gods._

She remembered the night before in flashes; Sandor kissing her, her dress dropping around her feet, their bodies wrapped around each other, his name on her lips, his lips on her. Her body was still tender, and she knew without looking there would be teethmarks on her breasts, finger-shaped bruises on the white skin of her hips. She was sore between her thighs, and she could still feel his seed drying on them.

_Oh _gods.

Sansa buried her face in her hands and tried to think. What was she supposed to do now? What would a _lady_ do now? She took a deep breath and pried her hands away from her face. The sheets rustled and a heavy, warm arm was thrown lazily across her stomach. A hand , rough and familiar, curved up her side and pulled her closer. Sansa bit her lip. "Sandor?"

He didn't respond except to bury his face in her hair and continue sleeping. She shifted a little, turning on her side to face him. "Sandor, wake up."

"Bugger that." He muttered into her neck. He raised his head, brushing a lock of hair off her face. "Sleeping next to you is like trying to sleep in the middle of a melee."

Sansa was confused. "What?"

"You're restless. When you sleep."

"Oh. I'm sorry, I hope I didn't hurt you." Sansa didn't know what else to say.

Sandor chuckled throatily, his voice hoarser than normal. "I should be asking you that, little bird." He continued twining a lock of her hair through his fingers, and the smile faded from the ruin of his face. "Did I?"

She stroked his face and shook her head. "No. A little. Not that badly."  
>"Make up your damn mind, girl."<p>

"A little then." She snuggled closer to him, resting her cheek against his chest. He was hard against her, and she felt his heart quicken as her hips pressed against his. His lips pressed gently against her forehead before he tilted her face up to his. They travelled to her temple, her cheekbone, one over each closed eye and along her jaw before finally settling on hers. His tongue plumbed her lips apart and drew hers out tantalizingly. Sansa moaned quietly into their kiss, drawing him closer. Sandor's attitude this morning was completely different than the night before; where he had been angry and harsh, he was now gentle and almost lazy. He trailed his hand down her thigh, leaving a trail of goosebumps after. In one smooth move, he rolled her onto her back and hitched her calf over his hip. Propping himself up on his elbows, he looked down at her and she was struck by the contentment in his eyes. She pulled his face towards hers and kissed him deeply, not wanting to ruin the moment by talking.

Their hands roamed each other as if they were trying to memorize every inch of this strange new territory. His cupped her breasts gently, reshaping them and running his thumbs over her nipples until she whimpered into his lips. She trailed her fingers over the carved muscles in his back and shoulders, feeling small gouges from the night before that she didn't realize she'd left.

His manhood twitched against her and when he pressed against her tentatively, she deepened the kiss and shifted her legs a little wider. When he entered her this time, the sting that accompanied it wasn't nearly as bad, and Sansa nearly wept from the sheer pleasure that spread through her. He moved in her frustratingly slowly, taking nips at her tongue and lips. Sansa pulled her lips away briefly. "Don't you have work to do on the Isle?"

"Piss on that. I'd like to see the Brothers try and interrupt." He dropped his head to the curve of her neck and picked up his pace a little. In no time at all, Sansa felt a warm, pleasant pressure start to build deep within her. She dropped her head back, letting her soft cries slip out.

Sandor ran his thumb over Sansa's sensitive nub, keeping the small circles in time with his thrusts. Her climax came upon her suddenly, wracking her body with wave after wave of pleasure. She clung to Sandor, wrapping herself around him and dimly, she heard his low groan as he spent himself deep inside of her.

In the stillness that followed, Sansa couldn't keep the nagging question of whether or not he would leave for King's Landing and his brother. She debated convincing him to take her with him and decided that even though he would undoubtedly say no, she might be able to talk him into it. It would be dangerous, but so was staying on the Quiet Isle without Sandor. The thought of losing him congealed in her stomach, a stone of cold fear. _And what of after? Do you intend to take him to Winterfell as your lover? Your husband? He may not want to come North with you. If he does manage to kill Gregor he'll inherit the lands and titles and the wealth and responsibilities that come with it. You'll have nothing to offer him._ As his movements slowed and stilled, she kissed him desperately, hoping she could push the thought of leaving from his mind.

Neither of them knew the choice had already been taken out of their hands.

_A/N So this is just a quickie that I hadn't originally intended to write, but once again, I find myself being pulled out of town and out of touch for the weekend and I didn't want to leave you guys hanging because you've been fantabulous with your feedback and I give cookies to you all although in retrospect I realize I probably did, in fact, leave you hanging. Huh. Well, either way, I'm going to wrap this up in another chapter or two. Probably two, and I've started putting thought towards if I want to write another one. So, with any luck, I'll have something written on Sunday but I want to make sure I get this next chapter right._


	9. Chapter 9

Sansa was jolted out of a warm semi-daze by the clash of metal on metal outside, followed by a pained scream. In a flash, Sandor was out of bed and at the window. Sansa watched as his muscles tensed. "_Seven hells_." He turned away from the window, grabbing his clothes and tossing Sansa her cotton dress from where it lay abandoned on the floor.

She pulled it on, confused and scared. "What's going on?"

Sandor struggled with his armor, not responding till he'd pulled the last piece from the chest. He strapped on his sword and pressed his dagger into her hand. "Do not leave this room. Kill anyone who comes through that door."

Sansa stared at him with wide, frightened eyes. "What? No, I can't kill anyone, I've never even _held_ a knife like this-"

He gripped her shoulders painfully tight; she gasped when he gave her a rough shake. "I don't care. You'll either do it or you'll die, do you understand?"

She finally nodded stiffly. Sandor looked as if he wanted to say something else, but instead pressed a hastened kiss against her lips and was gone. Sansa stared at the closed door for a long moment, half-expecting him to come back through it and say this was some sort of jape but she knew better. Sliding out of the bed, she peered out the window and bit back a scream.

The Mountain stood in the middle of the yard, weak winter light gleaming off his armor. Blood ran down the edge of his sword and pooled around the sprawled-out body of a Brother. She didn't know which one. Something caught the Mountain's attention – he spun towards the building she was in and took a few steps towards it before a second, more familiar figure lunged into Sansa's view.

The Hound seemed dwarfed next to the Mountain, looking like a boy fighting his father. Their swords smashed together and Sansa cringed, gripping the dagger. The Mountain swung his blade at the Hound's head, and his brother only barely managed to dodge out of the way. He swung a mailed fist at Gregor that landed somewhere around his jaw, and the clang reverberated even though Sansa's ears.

This would not be a fast battle, Sansa realized quickly. Both men were matched in skill, but it was evident that the Mountain lacked the Hound's speed and the Hound the Mountain's inhuman strength. Time and time and time again their blows rained down on each other and it took Sansa everything she had to stay in that small room. She closed her eyes, unable to take the sight of the battle raging beneath her. _Please, please just let it be over soon¸ _she prayed. She didn't know to whom – the Father, the Warrior, the Stranger, or the old gods. _You can't take him away from me, not when we've just found each other again._ Sansa knew better to think it wouldn't be fair – it wasn't fair when King Robert took her, Arya, and her father away from Winterfell, it wasn't fair when her mother kidnapped Tyrion Lannister and escalated this war, it wasn't fair when Cersei and Joffrey and Ser Ilyn had taken her father's head, it wasn't fair when her mother and brothers were killed.

She took a steadying breath and pulled her fingers away from her eyes. Hiding like a child wouldn't stop whatever inevitable death was about to occur. Blood flowed freely down a gash in Sandor's face, sheeting one half of his face in blood. The Mountain's knee joint was one of many dripping red, and he was limping. His helmet was off, rage contorting his features. He took an angry step towards the Hound, who spun around behind his brother. There was a blinding flash from his blade across the back of Mountain's leg. Sansa heard his bellow of pain as the Hound planted a kick to the same spot. The Hound forced his head back and reached for his hip for the dagger he kept there – the dagger that Sansa still clutched. In the instant he didn't find it, the Mountain lunged back on his good leg, knocking the Hound off balance. He stumbled back and again, barely missed losing his head as the Mountain whirled around. The giant advanced on his brother slowly, cumbersomely, and raised his sword in both hands for the killing blow.

In the heartbeat before the blade fell the Hound smashed the hilt of his sword into his brother's exposed throat. Blood coursed out of his mouth and he dropped to his knees, his hands going to his throat. The Hound wasted no time and plunged his sword to the Mountain's chest. When he pulled it back, blood sprayed out in a fine mist. The Mountain fell face-first into the mud and was starting to rise when the Hound again drove his blade through the back of his brother's neck. His body jerked horribly, and was still. The Mountain had finally fallen.

Sansa cried out and ran from the room before she knew what she was doing. _He's alive! Thank the gods, he's alive!_ She raced down the stairs and heedless of the fact that she was barefoot and wearing nothing save a thin cotton dress, ran outside. Sandor was standing over his brother's body, breathing heavily. He stared down at it numbly, as if unsure what to do now. Sansa stepped through the blood-laced mud, wincing at the coldness, and laid her hand on his forearm tentatively. He started as if expecting another blow, and looked down at her. She offered him a weak, watery smile and reached up to wipe some of the blood off his face with her sleeve. He bent to kiss her as the Brothers started emerging from the other buildings, and one of them cleared his throat.

"What do you wish to do with the body?" Maester Maddoc asked from behind Sandor. He looked slightly pale and nauseated at the sight of the body, as if he weren't quite used to seeing them.

Sandor glanced at Gregor's body again and didn't hesitate. "Burn it."

_A/N Ugh. Battle scenes are hard, you guys. Anyway, close to wrapping it up now. As always, i own nothing and thanks for reading!_


	10. Chapter 10

Six weeks later, Sansa gazed with mild trepidation at the somewhat imposing keep that would be her home. It looked to be kept up well enough, but it was eerily quiet. She was used to the quiet undercurrent of activity at the Quiet Isle and the Eyrie, and the louder bustle of King's Landing and Winterfell before that. With this keep, though, there was nothing. No dogs barking, no people, hardly any footsteps dotting the blanket of snow that covered the ground. A gust of wind tugged at the cloak she wore, and she pulled it tighter around herself, going over the events of the last month and a half in her head.

Shortly following Gregor's death a flurry of ravens had come out of King's Landing, and Maester Maddoc had been all too happy to share them with Sansa and Sandor. Gregor, it seemed, had been lead to believe that Sansa had drowned in the Trident. He'd continued on to King's Landing, supposedly furious enough that he'd gutted Renard more or less with his bare hands. Cersei had been furious when he'd arrived without her and had nearly stripped him of his titles and lands. After that, Gregor had left King's Landing in a fury, leaving a path of murder, rape, and burnt towns behind him. Sansa had no doubt his arrival on the Quiet Isle was no coincidence; knowledge was powerful in Westeros, and despite having fooled many people with a faked death, someone out there was clearly still aware of Sandor's existence.  
>While they were piecing together Gregor's final weeks, word came from the south that an army of Dornishfolk, mythical Unsullied from the East, and, somehow, dragons led by a girl little older than Sansa herself had marched on King's Landing, executed Cersei and deposed Tommen, shipping the boy off to Sunspear to be held as a ward.<p>

When the call came out that this new Queen Danerys was looking for pledges of loyalty, Sansa decided the wisest thing would be for her to bend her knee to the girl and beg for help in reclaiming Winterfell. At her words the Queen laughed kindly and told her Winterfell had already been reclaimed by Sansa's own kin. Her youngest brother Rickon, along with a band of Wildlings, had forcefully overtaken Winterfell and had cast out Ramsay Bolton. According to the ravens, the boy had unleashed his half-wild direwolf Shaggydog on Bolton and it had not been a pleasant death, or a fast one. Nevertheless Sansa was overjoyed at the prospect of the Stark standard being flown over her childhood home had leaned forward in her chair as the Queen told her the story, her hand grasping Sandor's wrist tightly. "What of Bran? And Arya? What have you heard of them?"

Danaerys shook her head. "Nothing of your sister, but Rickon remembers your brother being alive when they were separated."

Sansa slumped against the back of her chair, tears welling in her eyes. _They could still be alive. If Bran was able to get as far North as Rickon said he could still be alive, and maybe Arya too._ She knew suddenly they were both alive. They _had_ to be. There was no other possible alternative.

Danaerys looked at Sansa, her violet eyes piercing into her for a moment before turning to Sandor. "Ser, if you'd be so kind as to give us the room for a moment?"  
>"I'm-"<p>

"-not a ser." Sansa finished for him, her voice wobbling as she offered a small smile up at him. He looked slightly affronted, but nodded and stood.

"As you wish." His hand briefly brushed the back of Sansa's neck as he exited.

The Queen had waited until the door shut behind Sandor and smiled softly at Sansa. "I had a love like that, once." she said. Her voice was weighted by a faint sadness and regret.

"A love like-?" Sansa tried to feign innocence but realized by the Queen's gentle chiding laughter that she feigned very poorly.

"That man," Danerys nodded towards the door, shifting in her chair and folding one slender leg under her. "looks at you the way my sun-and-stars looked at me." She tented her slender fingers under her chin and cocked her head. "He's come into his own land."

"I know." Sansa replied quickly. Many a night after Gregor's death, she'd lain awake next to him turning that fact over in her head. Now that Sandor was by all rights the lord of Clegane's Keep, she knew she couldn't hold him to his promise to stay by her side. He would have his own home now, his own land, and she would return to Winterfell. Her heart sank every time she thought about it and she felt guilty. She should be thrilled at the prospect of going home but now it seemed joyless. "It's far from Winterfell; probably a fortnight's ride if the road is easy."

"What's stopping you from going with him?" Danerys asked. "I know your family's unofficial words decree that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, but as I understand it, there is." She leaned forward, her fair eyebrows raised expectantly.

"I can't - it's not proper. He's made me no offers and I have nothing to give him." Sansa fidgeted. _It wasn't proper for you to spend the last 3 weeks' worth of nights in his bed but that didn't stop you._ "And I'm still married to Tyrion Lannister."

"Do you want to be?"

"No," Sansa replied honestly. "Tyrion was -_is_ - a good man. He treated me gently, and never touched me. I don't want him punished for his family's acts."

"Nor will he be." The petite Queen had answered easily. "Your marriage will be annulled and both of you will be the happier for it."

One thing Sansa found out about her new Queen was that she liked to move quickly. By the start of the next week she was released from one marriage, and by the end of it she had been bound in another. This time, however, it wasn't with dread or humiliation that she had faced her husband; rather, with joy and anticipation.

A leather-clad hand reached over and covered her hand, jolting her back to the present. She turned to Sandor, a smile breaking through any nervousness she had. "Do you think our raven made it?"

"Even if it did, whoever remains here is used to my brother's rule." Sandor gazed at his once and future home. "I promise you, he ran a strict ship."

Sansa nodded, her stomach suddenly twisting. "I'm nervous."

He didn't say anything, just offered the small smile she'd grown to love and spurred Stranger onward, towards their home. Sansa nudged her own mount after, her smile turning inward. She hadn't had her moon blood in two months. Despite the fact that winter was just barely starting in Westeros, Sansa felt as though it was already spring.

_A/N And that's it, folks. A good ol' fashioned fast-forward ending. I'm really glad you guys liked this as much as you did. I couldn't have done it without your feedback and input - you guys rock! There's a good possibility that I'll write another one here at some point but it won't be updated as quickly as this one was and therefore will hopefully be of better quality. Anyway, thank you again for reading and for your support. I love you all!_


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